


The Sacred 28

by secretbeatheroes



Series: Anthology of a World Unseen [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Curse, Blood Magic, Consensual Hate Sex, F/F, F/M, Hate Sex, M/M, Pre-Canon, Smut, also i am disappointed in y'all, also i saw millicent bullstrode/xenophilius lovegood, and also it's just an exploration of the canon, and bellatrix/you, anyway..., because i search "bellatrix" and the first thing i see, how did you even come up with that, is bellatrix/reader, kinky bastards, like PLOT ESSENTIAL PORN, maybe not essential but, mind you me, pre-1980, she's evil you know, there's porn, this stuff will be relevant later in the series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-05 19:37:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretbeatheroes/pseuds/secretbeatheroes
Summary: 15 chapters on how the Sacred 28 “original" Wizarding families interacted through history with the bonus of two ancient and but not Sacred families: the Potters and the Peverells. Prequel to Moony and the Dogfather





	1. Shafiq and Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am pro-choice, always and forever. My characters do not represent myself or my views. I say my, they’re Rowling’s, tho she hasn’t done a lot with them so…

_Summer, 1953 ___

____

__

Euphemia Potter née Shafiq and Dorea Potter née Black were unlikely friends and even unlikelier in-laws. Nearly three decades apart in age, they had never crossed paths at Hogwarts or even met until they had married: Charlus, being much younger than Fleamont, always seemed to be too busy bouncing around with his quidditch career to come and visit. So it had been a surprise when, one Saturday morning, Dorea showed up of Euphemia’s doorstep and blurted out that she needed advice. 

“Are you barren,” she said, her hair askew and her pale, pointed face currently a deep and slightly splotchy red. Euphemia blinked. 

“Come in, Dorea,” she said, tightly. Dorea obeyed, and Euphemia flicked her wand towards the lemon yellow kettle hanging above a cheerfully crackling purple fire. Doria seemed momentarily entranced by her surroundings. 

It was, Euphemia thought proudly, a rather good house. Not a manor— even her father-in-law old Harry Potter had found that entirely too pretentious— but a beautiful home all the same. After they had sold Sleakeasies, Fleamont and Euphemia had retired to the countryside and dedicated themselves to travel. The house was filled with strange magical relics and hung with chattering tapestries that swayed and laughed as unicorns and maidens ran from dragons and knights across the parlour. Hanging by the door was her great-grandfather’s medal for special services to the school that he had received for saving half the student body from a rogue abarimon. Dorea’s eyes were drawn to the intricate painted bronze. 

“Maya…avidey..alaya?” asked Dorea. Euphemia frowned at her. 

“Mayaavidyalaya” she said, “the wizarding school of west asia. Tea?” 

“Please,” said Dorea, tearing herself away from the medal. She looked a little ashamed of herself. The splotches on her cheeks had faded slightly, and she looked sick. Euphemia softened. 

“Sit down, duck,” she said as the tea began to pour itself. “Dilly?” An elderly house elf with hair pouring out of his round, mouse-like ears appeared in an elegantly wrapped bedsheet. 

“Is Madam wanting her biscuits?” he squeaked, and Euphemia smiled. 

“Yes please, Dilly, the ginger snaps if you don’t mind,” Dilly nodded enthusiastically and vanished with a crack. 

“I didn’t know you kept elves,” Dorea said lightly. She seemed to be stalling, trying to decide something. Her hands were shaking and her usually slightly haughty face betrayed a twinge of doubt. Euphemia decided to humour her. 

“Yes, well,” she said calmly, “we don’t particularly need elves but Dilly was getting on in years and Harry didn’t want him struggling with all those stairs in the London place. He couldn’t release him either, you know how they react to being socked.” Dorea nodded. The tea floated over in brightly painted bone china cups and the cream and sugar offered themselves first to their mistress and then to her guest. Euphemia, who drank hers “clean” on principle, shook her head but Dorea looked positively nauseated by the little pitcher. 

“Just the tea, thanks,” she said faintly, and Euphemia scrutinised her. 

“You asked if I was barren,” she said, and Dorea coloured.  
“Not very tactful of me,” she muttered, “only it’s been a bit of a day. I wished to know… that is, I was wondering… have you ever tried for children or is it… by choice.” Euphemia stared at her. 

“We’ve never tested it,” she said finally, “for all I know I may be barren. Monty and I have… taken precautions. I will no doubt no longer require them soon, as we get older. We love children but,” she hesitated, “it is not the life that we have… chosen.” 

Dorea was looking at her in excited apprehension. “Why?” she asked, and Euphemia was glad to see the top of Dilly’s shiny head making its way through the poufs and armchairs with a plate of biscuits levitating slightly above it. 

“Thank you, Dilly. Biscuit, Dorea?” Dorea’s face fell, but she accepted a ginger biscuit and thanked Dilly. After a delicate nibble, Dorea seemed to gather the courage to ask what she had been skirting around. 

“So you’ve never been pregnant,” she said, and Euphemia nearly dropped her tea with sudden realisation. 

“You’re pregnant,” she said in a hushed tone, and Dorea’s face crumpled. 

“I’m usually so careful with the charms,” she whispered, burying her head in her hands. Euphemia just stared. “Only… well it was after the quidditch world cup and… oh Merlin I must have forgotten and now…” when she looked up, her eyes were full of tears. “What am I going to _do _.” Euphemia blinked at her, too shocked to respond.__

____

____

“I,” she began, and then shook her head. “Do you not like children?” 

“I do,” said Dorea. She hiccuped and began to sob in earnest. “I really want this baby.” 

“Oh,” said Euphemia, who was trying not to project her own feelings onto the young woman, “so, you’ll have it. Is there,” she hesitated and moved to sit beside Dorea on the couch, “is there a problem?” 

“I don’t know,” Dorea wailed, and Euphemia rubbed her back in slow circles.

“What do you mean, duck,” she said gently, “what problem?” Dorea looked up at her with blotchy cheeks and reddened eyes. 

“I have a curse,” she said quietly. “A blood curse.” Euphemia stared at her, feeling a tug of nausea in her own stomach. 

“Bloody sacred twenty-eight,” Dorea said bitterly, “the cousin-marriage is really ruining us isn’t it? Not that they care. My father would have rather I died than marry a muggle, didn’t even come to the wedding when I married a blood-traitor..” Euphemia had a sudden horrible urge to laugh. Dorea Black and Euphemia Shariq had much more in common than either of them had realised. 

“I’m a maledictus,” she said suddenly, almost without realising she was saying it. Dorea’s eyes grew massive. 

“What?” she whispered, and Euphemia cringed at her own tactlessness. “But….” 

“There are potions,” she said evenly, “to extend the lifespan. And as long as I don’t morph purposely I have a much lower chance of transforming permanently before I’m, oh, a hundred years old. Plenty of time, really. I’ve made my peace with it.” Dorea looked at her in morbid fascination. 

“What do you..” she began, and Euphemia gave a short laugh. 

“A hyena,” she said. Dorea grew pale and shifted away from her ever so slightly. 

“Don’t worry,” said Euphimia, doing her best not to appear annoyed, “even when I transform I retain my mind. Hyenas are sacred creatures where my family comes from. They are fiercely protective of their families and smarter than most beasts. You will come to no harm from me.” Dorea was still trembling. 

“This, of course, is not something that you will tell anyone,” she said sharply, and Dorea nodded quickly. 

“I…” she began, and bit her lip, “I’m just a carrier. My mother was an infirmusanguini.” Euphemia gave her a sympathetic smile. She and Fleamont had decided against have children and in nearly thirty years of marriage had managed to prevent accident. She didn’t know what she would have done in Dorea’s place. 

“Would it be terrible,” Dorea asked, “to end this child’s life before it could begin in misery?” Euphemia swallowed.

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. She stared into the fire in order to avoid looking at Dorea, whose eyes had again filled with tears. “I don’t know if there’s a difference between preventing pregnancy and stopping an early pregnancy. It rather feels like there is, though I can’t explain why. I’d like to have lived, even with my condition. But I wouldn’t want to pass it on.” 

Dorea looked distraught. “When my mother died,” she said quietly, “she made me promise that I would never have children.” Euphemia’s sharp eyes flicked up quickly from her cup of tea. 

“That is a terrible thing to do to your daughter,” she said, and Dorea looked confused. 

“But you,” she said, gesturing vaguely towards the medal, “you never had children either.” Euphemia sighed. 

“That was my choice,” she replied firmly, “and Monty’s. Does Charlus know?” Dorea shook her head. 

“I didn’t think he cared much, about children,” she said wistfully. “he didn’t mention them at all when we were courting, not even after we married. Not until recently at least. I don’t…” she pointed her wand at her tea and heated it carefully, avoiding Euphemia’s eyes. 

“It was a secret,” she said, sounding almost petulant. “Father never let us even say it out loud after mother died. Just that she was frail. She was gone by the time I was fifteen, I didn’t… he didn’t need to know…” Euphemia was rigid, doing her best not to betray the anger that was welling up inside of her. She had told Monty when they were twenty-four, both of them young and eagerly entrepreneurial. She had been his legal advisor for Sleakeasy after she’d graduated from Oxford’s magical college of law and he had taken her with him to America on the guise of a business trip. Despite his glasses and gawky frame, women were drawn to Fleamont’s quick grin and easy charm. So, to her horror, was Euphemia. 

One night after a particularly wild pitch in a Chicago club, Euphemia had angrily pushed out the last of Fleamont’s admirers when she turned to see him behind her, his bowtie undone and his glasses askew, a glass of giggle water shaking in his hand. He looked as though he’d just lost a game of exploding snap, bewildered and slightly crestfallen. 

“What,” she’d snapped defensively, crossing her arms over the thin silk robes she’d bought in New York with her entire month’s salary, “it’s three in the bloody morning Potter.” 

“I love you,” he had blurted in reply and then blushed, looking rather ashamed. Euphemia had stared at him in horror. 

“This is very inappropriate,” she said sharply, and then without realising what she was doing she strode over and kissed him. The two had stayed up long into the night talking, negotiating, arguing. Euphemia wanted a career. Fleamont wanted to travel. Both had had grandparents who had grown up in India and wanted to live where their grandparents had lived. They agreed on a half-way compromise. By the time the sun came up Fleamont had asked Euphemia to marry him twelve times and each time she had countered with a question, an argument. On the thirteenth time she told him that she would never have children, told him about the curse, morphed into a hyena, and growled at him. Fleamont had stayed calm throughout— or at least appeared to be, as Monty had told her later that he had very nearly screamed— and when she was finished raging at him about how she had been perfectly happy before he had come along with his beautiful eyes and slim, sharp jaw he had gotten on his knee and asked her to marry him. And she had. 

Of course she hadn’t had much in the way of a choice about telling him about the curse. Someday she would be gone, trapped in the body of the beast she had been holding off as long as she could remember. Her mother had killed herself when Effie was only sixteen, before the benedictus potion had been invented and after she had begun to transform against her will into the massive bengal tiger that they had burned in an carefully arranged shroud. There was no way out of that, no passivity in the cursed blood they shared. Would she have done the same, in Dorea’s place? 

“Euphemia?” Dorea said, hesitantly. Euphemia stood and began to pace the room. 

“It’s your decision,” she said. “Keep it or don’t. But tell your husband.” 

…. 

Marius Charlus Potter was born in the spring of 1954, a hale and healthy boy with a name that was generally agreed to both be bad luck and in bad taste. 

“We made him godfather too, if you’d believe it,” Dorea told Euphemia as the two women watched Harry play with his baby grandson. Euphemia laughed uproariously, upsetting her tea. 

“Oh lord, a blood traitor father and a squib godfather,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. Charlus and Fleamont were playing Quidditch in the back garden (with more enthusiasm than agility, as they were both getting on in years) and Euphemia and Dora were left in the parlour of the London house as Harry and Marius entertained each other. 

“I don’t mind that you named him after a squib,” said Harry from where he sat levitating christmas gifts in the air just out of Marius’ reach, “but where’s my namesake hmm? I’m not getting any younger you know.” 

Dorea smiled at him, standing to bring him a cup of tea. She had always looked more at home in the London house than Euphemia did, with her pale fine-boned face and dark, fashionable robes. Motherhood had softened her slightly, rounding her cheeks and necessitating more practical garb, but she was still a Black. The baby, though, was thoroughly Potter from his thick patch of black hair to his warm brown skin. 

“You can take it up with Marius and whoever has the misfortune of marrying into this family next,” she teased, smoothing the baby’s hair. 

Harry grinned. “Nah, he’ll saddle the poor kid with another one of those weird star names like you did, I can tell.” 

“But rich coming from a man who named his son Fleamont,” said Charlus as the two walked in. Fleamont affectionately messed up his brother’s hair. 

“Ah, bugger off,” he said genially, “I made it work.” He threw Euphemia a wink and she rolled her eyes at him. 

“Anywho,” said Harry, standing on creaking knees, “your mother’s questionable taste in names aside, I thought we ought to take the newest Messer Potter to the Quidditch World Cup this summer?” 

As his sons roared their assent, looking bright and excited as boys a quarter of their age, Dorea turned to Euphemia with a grin. 

“What is it with Potters and Quidditch,” she said, tossing her silky black hair in mock disdain. 

“Says the finest beater the Holyhead Harpies ever saw,” Euphemia replied wryly, and Dorea laughed. It was times like this that Euphemia wondered how her sister-in-law had ever been raised in the Noble and Moste Anciente House of Black. Then again, she herself wasn’t much of a Shafiq any more. The two had settled comfortably into bloodtraitordom, safe from blood curses and the cruel traditions that Marius, like his father, would never suffer at the hands of his doting parents. Not for the first time since his birth Euphemia wondered if perhaps she and Fleamont had made a mistake in not having children of their own. Blood curses aside, they’d have made much better parents than most of the pureblood British wizarding families about. Of course it was almost certainly too late now. Both she and Fleamont were pushing sixty and adoption was almost entirely unheard of in the wizarding world, not since it had been made illegal to kidnap muggleborn children who showed early signs of magic. No, they’d made their choice. 

Still, it was with a hint of wistfulness that Euphemia watched as Fleamont kissed and cuddled a giggling Marius. She felt Dorea’s gaze settle on her and turned, self conscious and unduly annoyed. 

“What?” she snapped, and Dorea had only offered her a sad smile. 

“I was only thinking,” she said gently, “how grateful I am for your advice.”

_December, 1959 ___

____

____

“Bugger,” said Euphemia, with feeling. “Bugger. Bugger. Bugger.” 

“Effie?” asked Fleamont from outside of the kitchen. Euphemia clutched the rim of the cauldron, and stared at potion. 

“Eff let me in or I’m blowing down the goddamn door,” Fleamont tried again. Euphemia didn’t move. 

“Stand back!” he yelled, and Euphemia flirted briefly with the idea of not moving ever again, just staying frozen at the the kitchen counter for the rest of her life. But Monty would blow up the door and it would be hell to fix so she got up and unlocked it, opening the door to reveal her husband in his nightshirt and bathrobe. His wand was raised and his greying hair was wild around his lined face. He looked, she thought for the first time, very old. 

“Eff?” he said uncertainly, and she imagined a child with his knobbly knees and kind eyes and felt a cold swoop of excitement and fear. 

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “Merlin help us, I’m pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some logistics: Dorea Black Potter can be found on the Harry Potter wiki along with her son and her husband Charlus Potter (whom I have made Fleamont’s brother, as we have no specific information on how they are related). She is actually Sirius’ great aunt! You can find the Shafiq family among the Sacred 28 and an abarimon is a mythical Pakistani beast that takes a humanoid form with backwards facing feet and a “savage” disposition. Mayaavidyalaya is a rough sanskrit translation of “magic school” and if you know more about it than me (which is very easy as I know only three words of sanskrit) then let me know and I will fix it!!! I am weird about the idea of having Nagini be a person (check it out: maledictus) and I DO NOT consider the Cursed Child to be canon but I am excited by the concept of blood curses so here are some blood curses. Maledictus can only pass mother to daughter, so James is safe jsyk. However, it will be relevant later.


	2. Prewett and Lestrange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay I am ashamed to admit it but this is basically 100% porn. My very first time writing straight porn, with which I do admittedly have experience but I am a lesbian so take it as you will. There is character study though and in my defence I was as surprised at how it turned out as you will probably be.

Gideon and Fabian Prewett were from good, honest bloodraitory stock, which suited them just fine.

“Hullo, Bellatrix,” said Fabian amiably, grinning at the newly-minted Bellatrix Lestrange as she joined him reluctantly in the queue at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. 

“Toujours pur,” she sneered at him and raised her wand into the air lazily.

“You, Goblin” she called, waving at one of the clerks. He looked up and indicated that she wait a moment, and Bellatrix’s lip curled in disgust. “Filthy creatures,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. Her wand vanished back into her sleeve and Fabian saluted at her.

“N’est pas mauvais,” he replied in an affectation of her posh accent. She glared at him.

“What are you doing in a place like this,” she asked, “robbery I presume? I heard your sister is going to have another Weasley brat, surely you can’t afford to feed another one.”

Fabian, long used to the jibes on his family finances, grinned at her. “I heard your sister hasn’t managed to produce a Malfoy— blood getting a bit thin from all the centuries of limited options?” Bellatrix’s wand reappeared in her hand

“Thanks to mudloving bloodtraitors like you,” she spat, “weakening the noble houses. Fabian mimed shock.

“Why Bella, I’m flattered but you’re not really my type...” 

Bellatrix’s face formed an impressive mix of disgust, cruelty, and fury. Really, thought Fabian, she was just too easy. And Gideon had said he’d have a boring time at the bank.

“I know what your type is, you filthy abomination,” she seethed. Fabian laughed.

“They don’t call me Fae for nothing, Trixie,” he said easily. Jibes on his sexuality were also fairly par the course. Bellatrix actually spat at him; he didn’t flinch. “My boots did need a little polishing, thanks” he said. Bellatrix gripped her wand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“You disgust me,” she hissed. Fabian winked.

“Not what your husband said last night,” he said; this seemed to strike a final nerve in Bellatrix whose pale skin flushed. She whipped her wand at him, shrieking out a hex. Fabian, who had cast a protego over a minute before, laughed as it bounced off him harmlessly.

“Really should master those nonverbals, Trix,” he said lightly, renewing the charm wordlessly, “I appreciate the flair for drama of course, but it really does give you away. Bellatrix looked ready to curse him again when the goblin, clearly wanting to avoid a scene, called her over.

“Madame Lestrange” he said and Bellatrix wavered, clearly torn between conducting whatever foul transaction she had planned and hexing Fabian’s bits off. Fabian, rather fond of his bits, waved her a cheery goodbye but made no further comment. She flounced off, having clearly not yet mastering her aunt Walburga’s admittedly impressive dismissive sweep, and went to the counter where she made a point of carrying out a large sack of gold. _So tastelessly bourgeois _Fabian thought with only a trace of bitterness as went to withdraw money from the Prewett account (admittedly for Molly) and left to enjoy the remaining hour of his lunch break from the Auror academy.__

____

__

Once he was tucked safely into a booth in The Leaky Cauldron, he pulled back his sleeve and grinned at the enchanted mirror he wore on his wrist beside his somewhat battered watch, “Giddeon," he muttered into the glass, "you’ll never guess who I ran into.”

……….

The next time Fabian Prewett encountered Bellatrix Lestrange was only a few days later in the atrium of the ministry for magic. Bellatrix, now flanked by Narcissa Malfoy and Cressida Carrow, sneered at him. 

“Fabian Prewett,” she said with a toss of her thick black hair, “we meet again.” Fabian placed a hand over his heart, doing his best to appear wounded. 

“Giddeon, actually,” he said with a dramatic sniff, “or did our tryst mean so little to you?” Bellatrix flushed; Narcissa and Cressida sneered. 

“In your dreams, perhaps,” she said regaining some composure. Fabian winked.

“Whatever you say, Bella,” he replied easily, “trust me, I wouldn’t like anyone to know where your death eating mouth has been either…” Bellatrix fumed but she was evidently too smart to pull a wand at him in the ministry. Fabian offered her a winning smile. 

“So,” he said, “bringing lunch to dear Rabastan? Or was it Rodolphus, I can’t bear looking at either one long enough to distinguish. I don’t know how pure blood can be when you mix it with troll..” he winked at Cressida, who was stupid enough to pull her wand out. Narcissa grabbed her arm. 

“I was just going to see Rodolphus,” she sneered, “as he can afford to take me to a finer establishment. I assume you will be eating at the… what do they call it? Canteen?” Fabian grinned. 

“Funny, I was sure he’d already eaten,” he replied, “as my brother has just been off with him to do the very same thing.” It wasn’t true, of course. In all honesty the canteen prices were a bit steep and so he and Gideon had taken to packing their lunches before leaving the house. Still, the look on Bellatrix’s face could sustain him for days. 

“Your disgusting brother’s proclivities have nothing to do with my husband,” she said, and Fabian shrugged. 

“Well, I wouldn’t know, Fabian’s a gentleman. He rarely kisses an tells. I, on the other hand, am a world class slag as you well know.” He winked at her, which was just shy of a step too far. Bellatrix turned a deep maroon which brought out the bloodlust in her eyes quite nicely. Fabian winked. 

Narcissa, probably the smartest of the three, grabbed her sister before Bellatrix could retaliate. Bellatrix shook her off with a scowl. 

“Unhand me, Cissy,” she said, “we’re leaving.” Fabian called to her retreating back, unable to resist. 

“I’ll give my love to Drommie for you then? And the sprog?” This time Narcissa did not restrain Bellatrix. She whirled around as is to retort as Gideon, bless him, materialised at his brother’s side with a resounding bang. The jumpier ministry workers upended their mugs of tea or shrieked, which was precisely the effect Fabian knew that Giddeon liked to have on people. 

“Ah, Fabian,” said Fabian, “good of you to come by. I was just remembering Andromeda to her sisters”. Gideon grinned. 

“Still shagging Trixie then, are you Gid?” he asked, and Fabian took a moment to thank Merlin and Circe for giving him such a wonderfully like-minded brother. Bellatrix snarled at them. 

“Leave my family alone,” she hissed, stalking away. Gideon turned to Fabian with a bright smile. 

“Didn’t know Andromeda was still family,” he said conversationally and Fabian was only slightly ashamed of himself for laughing at Andromeda’s fate. 

“I think she means you, by which I mean she means me,” he said, “as I told her that you were me and that I was off shagging Lestrange.” Gideon chuckled. 

“Twin thing’s a bit confusing innit? So then you’re still doing Rabastan or Rodolphus, you slag,” he teased. Fabian rolled his eyes. 

“I’m not the Prewett brother who hate-fucked a Lestrange at Hogwarts,” he said, and Gideon had the decency to shudder. 

“She was a Black at the time,” he replied, “less troll blood.” 

“That’s what I said,” Fabian said in delight, and Gideon winked. 

“Can’t hide the truth,” he said, “Principalement pur.” 

“Parfois pur,” countered Fabian. 

“Pur Avec une petite peu de Troll” amended Gideon. Laughing, the brothers walked arm in arm to the lift. 

… 

 

“Madame Rosmerta, corruptor of my youth,” said Gideon Prewett, greeting the proprietor of the Three Broomsticks with a charming wink. It was a nice night; not too many attacks that week _and _Moody had given them the night off for good behaviour.__

____

__

“Remember,” he had snarled, “Constant Vigilance!” Gideon was pretty sure that if he ever had the opportunity to use a pensieve that all he would have to put into it would be those words. They haunted him in his dreams— or would, if Moody ever gave him a chance to sleep— and had replaced all of the space in his head for memories of Minerva McGonagall’s fond scoldings and the image of Emmaline Vance’s spectacular tits. Perhaps the latter memory was not, in fact, completely gone. He spent a moment of fond reminiscence. 

The fact was that Gideon Prewett had not gotten his leg over anyone in a very, very long time. War times and all that. People with fewer responsibilities than he were shacking up like rabbits— little James Potter and Lily Evans were due to be married in a few weeks, absolutely ridiculous— but the Order of the Pheonix was notably low in unattached philanderers. He ought to put in a complaint to Dumbledore— after all, wasn’t wartime vigilantism a sexy occupation?— but he had a niggling fear that old Dumbledore would actually entertain the motion which, no offence to the Professor, would be something of a mood-kill. No, Gideon would have to stick it out a bit longer. Or stick it in his pants more like. He made a note to inform Fabian of his brilliant paronomasia when he was joined at the bar by one Bellatrix Black. 

_Lestrange _, he corrected himself, and bodily prevented himself from turning to greet her. Fabian would have lunged at the opportunity but Gideon, despite Fabian’s protestations otherwise, was the wiser of the two. He was not going to goad Bellatrix into a fight, especially after Fabian had been running his mouth about the fact that Gideon and Bellatrix had had a… differently antagonistic relationship in their NEWT years at Hogwarts.__

____

____

It was funny the way these things worked. The two of them had never come close to getting along in school; Bellatrix had been sick and twisted even as a skinny eleven year old, Gideon as proud and Gryffindor then as he would be the day he died. Despite what Fabian liked to insinuate they hadn’t even gotten along while they were doing whatever it was that they had done when they were sixteen. The war had not yet really begun; ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’ was still colloquially referred to as ‘What-Was-His-Name-Again’ and Gideon’s principal concern had not been ‘death eaters’ but rather how best to evade Molly’s detection when he and Fabian were wrecking havoc in Hogwarts hallowed halls. If it was not for the strain of NEWT level potions and stuffy dinners with the Slug Club (which the twins had attended not out of ambition but out of an overwhelming love of Sluggy’s strawberry ice-creams), Gideon Prewett would have had very little interaction with then-Bellatrix-Black. 

Yet there _had _been the Slug Club and really, Gideon doubted that even Lord Thingy could come up with a worse torture than NEWT level potions. It was through Slug Club connections that the both of them had gotten the password to the seventh-floor prefects bathroom in sixth year, and for stress relief that they had both broken in on the same dreary Scottish night after curfew. Stress relief there was indeed; Bellatrix had walked in on Fabian having a gorgeous lavender-scented wank in the bath and the strangest relationship of his young life had ensued then and there.__

____

____

With his beater’s build and roguish good looks, Gideon knew that the sight of himself walking in the bath was nothing to be scoffed at. He had, in fact, done so in front of a mirror occasionally though he would, of course, deny insinuations of the kind. Bellatrix wasn’t terrible to look at either: she was curvy and tall with the typical Black high cheekbones and long lashed silver eyes. She had glared at him upon entering and Gideon had flushed despite himself— he was, after all, sixteen-years-ols and mid-wank. Instead of making her usual snide comment, Bellatrix had met his eyes and stripped off her robes, sliding luxuriously into opposite side of the pool-sized bath. 

In graphic and not-altogether-honest retellings, Gideon would say that they were exchanging heated words when Bellatrix grabbed his well-muscled shoulders and kissed him with passionate hatred. What had actually happened was far more strange; she, herself, had began to masturbate. 

They had glared into each other’s eyes, an unspoken competition to see who could last the longest. Bellatrix had the significant advantage of having only just begun and so Gideon, his honour preventing him from either finishing or stopping, had grit his teeth and continued to work. After a few minutes he was beginning to lose his resolve, doing his best to imagine Dumbledore in frilled nickers and McGonagall in a catsuit (which, to his surprise, had actually proved counterproductive). Then Bellatrix had begun to moan. 

_Rookie mistake, _Gideon had thought dizzily, the majority of his blood being in his cock,__ _it may turn me on, but it’ll turn her on too. ___He had smirked at her and slowly, luxuriously, bit his lower lip and lightly circled his thumb around his nipple. Bellatrix flushed.

_____ _

_____ _

“Stop,” she had said in her ringing, commanding voice, and Gideon had been so surprised at the breach in their unspoken agreement to be, well, unspoken, that he obeyed. 

“Come here,” she commanded, and Gideon had approached warily, painfully cognisant of just how much he was enjoying her tone. He reached Bellatrix despite every nerve in his body that screamed she was going to hex him, and allowed her to pull him into a deep, wholly electrifying kiss. 

>This wouldn’t do, Gideon decided. There was no way she could have the upper hand. So with practiced fingers he gently thumbed the hood of her clitoris and she gave a shuddering gasp that made him feel every bit as pleased as he felt hexing her in the hallway. Emboldened, he pressed harder and circled around the spot until Bellatrix was moaning— actually moaning— against his mouth. He sucked one of her nipples up into his mouth, doing his best not to splutter at the bubbles surrounding her floating tits, and she pressed against his hand with a throaty moan. She was getting close— he was sure of it— and despite his being absolutely rock hard he knew that the game was won. He withdrew his hand and she gasped at the loss of friction, her eyes dark with lust. 

_Now, _he thought, pleased with himself,__ _she’ll have to pick between bringing herself to a finish or leaving the pool throbbing with discomfort. ___Neither of these things happened. Instead, Bellatrix had pushed him roughly onto the bench along the rim of the pool and straddled him, grinding herself down onto his cock. At the sudden warmth and slickness inside her, so different from the thin wetness of the water, Gideon knew that he was going to lose, and fast. She was thrusting herself onto him, rolling her hips and groaning in a deep, unrestrained way that seemed to thrum into his chest and around his cock.

_____ _

_____ _

“Fuck,” he groaned, “oh fuck you, Black, you evil bitch,” 

She hissed with pleasure, fucking back and forth, her eyes wide and crazed. 

“Prewett you filthy fucking mud-loving scum,” she hissed, “this is the only time you’ll ever get the privilege of fucking pure magical blood so be goddamn thankful.” 

“I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have,” he growled back, which in hindsight was very embarrassing for a sixteen-year-old to say but they were both playing at being adults back then, high off their approaching freedom and the mutual extremity of their conflicting beliefs. 

It was Bellatrix who came first, in his retelling of the story. In reality, Gideon was pushed over the edge as she tightened with the approach to climax and and as he came with a groan of defeat, bare and unprotected directly into Bellatrix Black. She had ridden out her orgasm on him as he stared, starry eyed in blissful relief into the exposed face of his enemy. At the memory of it now in the bar, Gideon noticed to his horror a slight tightening of his trousers and he fished, desperately, for the image of Arthur in his muggle bathing trunks. 

It didn’t work; Gideon wasn’t a blokes kind of bloke but he did appreciate a nice young body which Arthur certainly had, and Bellatrix had turned to look at him with that disdainful sneer that he enjoyed so very much. Slowly, deliberately, she knocked over her glass and spilled her fire whisky down his front.  
“Clumsy blood-traitoring scum,” she said, her hooded eyes on him. Gideon realised with a start what her intention was. Rather than casting a simple drying charm, he walked into the loo. Bellatrix Lestrange followed only moments later and, shoving him into a stall, began to work out some tension. 

……. 

Despite whatever Fabian may have hinted, Gideon Prewett had no emotions other than hatred to spare for Bellatrix Lestrange. Her ideology was more than just bad politics, it was literal evil. She was a cruel, nasty piece of work with whom he had never exchanged a pleasant word and with whom he never intended to. Her death would have brought him no more grief than the death of Lucius Malfoy or any of their stinking, fascist clan; a death was a death, of course, and neither of the brothers had been callous enough to celebrate death on either side. Whatever occurred between them on random, wordless evenings was strictly something else. Its own form of violence and comfort in the height of war and loss. He did not look forwards to it, and he rarely looked back. Still, it awoke an unhappy realisation within him: neither side of the wizarding war was inhuman. The cruelty and violence with which the Death Eaters dispatched muggles and attacked muggle-borns was human as well, in its filthiest and most shameful form. 

When Rodolphus, Rabastan, Bellatrix, Lucius, and Avery came for Fabian and Gideon Prewett, neither of them held back from casting hexes and jinxes at their opponents. It was a matter of principle, however ill advised, that prevented them from using Unforgivable curses and not mercy but refusal to sink to the evils of the other side that kept them mainly on the defensive in the battle of two against five. Gideon could not have been sure who cast the curse that killed his brother, nor would he ever know whose curse had killed him. The last thing he would see would be the wide eyes of Bellatrix Lestrange, as wild with bloodlust as they had been with pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes!


End file.
